


we follow our own steps, while our shadows keep watching us

by seroquel (smallredboy)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Childhood Sexual Abuse, Domestic Violence, Family Issues, Gen, Hurt Greg House, Mother-Son Relationship, Repressed Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 07:42:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19372264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/seroquel
Summary: Gregory is twelve, and he can't quite remember the summer he spent with his father.





	we follow our own steps, while our shadows keep watching us

**Author's Note:**

> for hc-bingo w/ the square "family", badthingshappenbingo w/ the square "memory loss" and for 15woes w/ the prompt "lost memories". 
> 
> title from _big houses_ by squalloscope. 
> 
> enjoy!

Greg doesn't actually remember much of what John did to him. He remembers bits and pieces, the taste of blood in his mouth, his father grabbing him by his armpits, swinging him towards his room without much of a care for him.

His mother knows, though. She can tell she's passed down the abuse from her husband to her son, and she cries. Greg tries to comfort her, he really does, wrapping his arms around her and hugging her as if he's not the one who needs comfort. As if they're not both victims. As if he's not barely twelve.

"Blythe," John pleads, voice strained with anger he can't see through the wall, but he can taste the same way he can taste his body on top of him. "I didn't do anything to the boy."

"You did!" Blythe screams. "You  _ touched _ him!"

"I didn't do anything to him, you fucking whore—"

An empty sound full of hatred, a shrill sob. Greg knows how it goes by now, has memorized it for years. And as it always goes, Blythe opens his door and enters, locks it behind herself.

"I'm sorry, Gregory," she whispers, tears sliding down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry, mama," he replies, leaning up to wipe her tears away. "I'm sorry."

* * *

The vague memories get almost vivid sometimes. Sometimes they come to him in dreams, speak to him in whispers, grab him by his ankles and his wrists.

He wakes up alone in his room, but he can see his father. Not a word is spoken, it never is. During that summer, they didn't talk. John was too busy being angry at him for uncovering his mother's infidelity; John was too busy doing unspeakable things to his body to talk to him.

He remembers the smell of the pillow, forced face down as John dirtied him without much of a word. Just a grunt of, of the implication that—

"Well, if I'm not your father then I can do this."

_ If I'm not your father I can get away with this. _

There is a moment where he pulls away and wipes himself off, leaves him like that. In his fuzzy memories he can't recall if it's been hours or just a few minutes of his father doing this to him. But he always stood up and ran to the bathroom, naked, threw up on the toilet. He retched until there was nothing in his stomach, aware that there was no dinner to be had.

He knows his brain doesn't want him to remember. He knows his brain doesn't want him to put the pieces together, to wreck it trying to find the memories he's suppressed. But he needs to know.

He reads the psychiatry books he finds in the library. They're lousy but the shell shock of veterans in the world war rings a bell or two.

"This is my war," he whispers into his mother's chest, trying not to cry. "This is my war."

"It's my war too, dear," Blythe tells him, her fingers carding through his hair. "It's our war."

"I know," he whispers, tears sliding down his cheeks as much as he attempts to not let them out. "I know."


End file.
